And still… I arched into him anyway.
Then, after what felt like an eternity of that sweet, maddening teasing, he pressed two fingers to my entrance and pushed inside, slow and deliberate, curling just slightly as he did.
My whole body clenched around him as I gripped his arms.
He groaned quietly against my hair, a satisfied, hungry sound that told me he feltexactlyhow wet and ready I was for him.
His fingers moved in a slow, rhythmic stroke, and I dropped my forehead against his chest and justfeltit. Felthim.
I’d been half in love with this man for years.
And here he was, finger-fucking me against the hood of his truck while the muffled thump of bluegrass leaked out from the bar behind us.
For one reckless second, I let myself pretend this wasn’t just a one-night thing.
That this meant something.
That maybe… I wasn’t just another Friday night to him.
Even though some quiet part of me knew better.
Then that thought disappeared in an instant as headlights swept across the gravel lot.
A truck pulled in from the road.
I gasped and went rigid.
Amos’s eyes locked onto mine, steady and dark, burning with a heat that made my stomach flip even in the middle of my panic.
He brought one finger to his lips in a slow, deliberate shush, and the corner of his mouth curved just slightly.
He wasenjoyingthis.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
I was pinned between him and his truck, and my heart was slamming so hard I was certain whoever had just pulled in could hear it.
We heard voices and laughter, followed by the crunch of boots on gravel.
A group of people spilled out of the truck, loud and cheerful, clearly already well into their Friday night.
They moved across the lot toward the entrance of the Bear Den, their voices carrying easily in the cool spring air as my pulse went wild.
“We should go,” I whispered, my voice unsteady. “Amos, we should really go. My heart’s going to give out.”
He let out a husky laugh, barely a sound at all, and then his fingers began to move again, slow and purposeful, resuming exactly where he’d left off.
“We’re not going anywhere,” he murmured against my ear, his free hand coming up to find my breast again, his thumb dragging across my nipple in a slow, devastating roll, “until you come for me.”
“Amos,” I breathed, half protest and half plea.
But my hips were already moving to meet him.
He leaned in just enough for his mouth to brush my ear.
“Stay quiet,” he murmured.
And then he started pulsing harder. Faster. His fingers curling just right.
